Thursday 31st May. How can this be true?

My day started fairly normally.

I brushed my teeth, I had a shower and then I had a cup of coffee.

I coloured in my face with the hideously expensive Yves Saint Laurent make-up that The Teenager bought me for Christmas, that I have to keep stashed behind the toilet to prevent Annabelle from turning into ‘Fairy-Attracting-Potion.’

I made Annabelle’s lunch.

Well, when I say I ‘made’ her lunch, what I actually did was stuff a Penguin bar, a tangerine and a packet of (as she calls them) Red-and-Salted crisps into her school bag, along with two pounds fifty so she could buy a sandwich as she walked past the village shop.

I was running a bit late.

What can I say?

Anyway, my point is; life was proceeding fairly normally. Then I switched on the news.

At that point I discovered that the parents of the six kids that died in the house fire at the beginning of May, the one that totally gutted the building and was already generally accepted to have been started with petrol, have been charged with their murder.

I hear on the grapevine that, as a couple, they hatched the plan with the sole intention of acquiring a more spacious council dwelling.

Whether or not this rumour is correct, I can’t say as the only time the couple have appeared in public was when they were hauled into court this morning, since the only speaking they did was to confirm their names and addresses, we cannot as a nation, take that information as an admission of guilt.

Occasionally in my life I’ve burnt my finger on a match or gas flame or something, I also remember getting pretty badly sunburned when I was sixteen and in my frame of reference, I equate burning with varying degrees of quite nasty pain.

These poor bloody children were burnt alive.

We’re not talking about a singed finger here, we’re talking about the most unimaginable pain known to  man, never mind how it must have felt to some innocent little babies who were sleeping peacefully, safe in the knowledge that their loving parents, their PJ’s and a cuddly toy were all they needed to get them safely through the night.

I want to cry.

I want this not to have happened at all, but what I really want is not to have to live in a world where it can even be suggested that a parent, any parent, would or could deliberately set their children on fire.

I can only hope that the unfolding story reveals that these sobbing, emotional parents are innocent of this crime.

For all our sakes.